


Breaking Point

by AnnieforSimonsflower



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Angst, Dark, Drama, Explicit Language, Heroes to Villains, Post-War, The Quidditch Pitch: Going Under, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-24
Updated: 2008-05-30
Packaged: 2018-10-27 19:59:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10815699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnieforSimonsflower/pseuds/AnnieforSimonsflower
Summary: Every man has a breaking point.  Harry Potter vowed never to kill again but finds his threshold is much lower when it involves his family.





	1. Chapter 1: Lever

**Author's Note:**

> This story is archived on behalf of Simons_flower, who passed away in 2009, by her designated archivist.
> 
>  **Author's notes:** I don’t know where this bunny came from – probably too many Darvocet – but it was nearly fully formed when it arrived. Bunnies that demand to be written are annoying. Tremendous thanks to [](http://madam-minnie.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://madam-minnie.livejournal.com/)**madam_minnie** for the beta and encouragement.

  
Author's notes: **chapter summary:**   It was supposed to be a holiday weekend on the beach.  Instead, it became his worst nightmare.  
 **chapter notes:**   I’ve had this idea for a few months, but have written this first chapter in three days.  I guess my muse is in an angsty place.  


* * *

 

**Breaking Point  
Chapter 1: Lever**

"You told me to remind you when it was six."

I look up. My partner, Tony DiMarino, is raising an eyebrow at me mockingly.

"Yes, I did."

With a growing smirk, he says, "You'd better call the wife." I throw a ball of paper at his head.

Leaning back in my chair, I scrub my hands over my face, then stretch my arms over my head. Two vertebrae in my lower back pop back into place. Sighing in relief, I relax. And days like this make me even more glad Katy convinced me to have my eyes surgically corrected -- contact lenses after staring at paper so long would feel like sandpaper and my glasses would be smudged beyond belief.

As I sigh, my eyes fall on the picture of Katy and Emily on the corner of my desk. I smile broadly at the thought of my wife and daughter.

When I escaped Britain after defeating Voldemort, I wanted nothing to do with the wizarding world for a while. I'd become a murderer for them and they wanted me to be their celebrity. Instead, I vanished. I forced the Minister to get me a set of Muggle documents, including passport, and traveled the world, starting in Japan.

Eighteen, newly drunk on freedom, and Tokyo made for an interesting combination. Hong Kong, Singapore, Bangkok, Angkor Wat, Sydney, Adelaide, Aukland, Seoul, Anchorage, Vancouver. It was a scenic tour of the Pacific Rim for a year in the furthest places I could go to be away from England and still be on the same planet.

In Seattle, I bought an extremely used car and drove east, crossing the Canadian and Mexican borders often enough to give the Border Patrol chest pains. They didn't believe I would do this for fun. According to them, my behavior meant I was running drugs. In Windsor, I discovered that a body cavity search is not fun.

My aimlessness changed after I sold my car just before getting to New York. Well, sold it to the punk trying to carjack me in Newark, New Jersey. He was thrown off-balance when I showed no fear of his gun and didn't move from the car. No matter how much of a junker it was, it was still one of my few possessions. I silently raised a kinetic shield -- in Bangkok, I had discovered a regular Protego does not stop physical objects, so, with Hermione's help via telephone, I developed a shield that would -- which stopped the bullet he fired at me. He was so shocked that when I asked for one thousand dollars for the car, he handed it over. I grabbed my rucksack, gave him the keys, and walked to the nearest train station.

Stretching again, I twist my neck and pop those vertebrae into place. I've been at my desk for hours now. I haven't seen Katy since the middle of the night when I left her asleep in our bed and I haven't seen Emily since putting her to bed last night. One of the drawbacks of being a detective on a big case is the middle-of-the-night phone call. Things should change for the better now, though, because we caught the dealer last night.

Still smiling, I pick up the phone and dial Katy's cell.

Katy picked up on the first ring. "Hi, honey."

I almost ask how she knows it's me when I remember Caller ID. Though I've lived almost entirely in the Muggle world for the last ten years, there are times when either my upbringing, my magic or my British heritage put me at a loss.

"Hello to you, too," I purr. In my mind's eye, I can see her bite her lower lip, a blush high on her cheeks as she tucks her blonde hair behind one ear.

I hear Tony making gagging noises, but I ignore him.

"Emily's waiting," she says a bit breathily. "Are you on your way down?"

I glance at the clock -- ten after six now -- and at the stack of remaining paperwork. To Katy, I reply, "No, but you'll wake up next to me."

I hear her blow out a breath. "I'd rather have you wake me up long before that."

I shift in my chair as I think about ways I can wake her up. Clearing my throat, I say, "Give Emily a kiss for me. I'll try to leave in a couple hours."

"Can't wait," Katy murmurs. "I love you."

"Love you, too."

I disconnect the call, dig the other half of a sad-looking hoagie out of my desk and settle in to have dinner, ignoring both the sad face Tony's employing to cadge half of even this pitiful sandwich and his cooing noises mocking my conversation.

I look up and glare at him. "You just wish you had someone to call." He scoffs. He's between wives right now, as he puts it, having had one and on the search for the next. "And you can't have my sandwich."

If I can get through half the remaining paperwork, I'll leave a half-day early from our weekend and finish it all. It's a holiday weekend, anyway.

By eight, the words are blurring in front of my eyes. I have nearly accomplished my goal. Locking up the files, I wave goodnight to Tony, who merely grunts and drains his coffee. I bid goodnight to the dispatcher, who then chides me for staying so late before a three-day weekend. I grin and remind her I'll be down the shore. She rolls her eyes -- it's where we've gone every Fourth of July since I met Katy and she knows it before shooing me away.

Grinning, I head down into the garage. Despite being awoken in the middle of the night, I packed my weekend bag and tossed it in the trunk so I wouldn't have to go home before leaving town or make Katy pack my bag. It's a running joke between us that she inevitably forgets something of mine when she packs for me, such as the year she forgot to pack my pants. I don't remember much about that holiday other than the places she accosted me and had her wicked way with me, turned on by my lack of undergarments. She swore the oversight was accidental, but I've never been sure I believed her. I could have purchased replacements, but I was enjoying myself, too.

Once I clear the city and cross the Walt Whitman bridge, traffic begins to thin. It won't clear completely -- even without the holiday, the area has been in the grips of a heat wave, sending temperatures into the high nineties with humidity to match. The summer weather is something I haven't accustomed myself to yet though, after seven winters in and around Scotland, I can handle winter here without complaint.

The drive is relatively uneventful after I clear Deptford. Talk radio keeps me company as a low drone in the background. Emily's car seat, without her weight to anchor it, rattles slightly. Though tempted, I don't call in the red BMW passing me on the shoulder -- but take unholy delight in seeing it pulled over by the New Jersey State Police ten minutes later.

There's a temptation to continue straight on the Atlantic City Expressway, to gamble for a while down at the Borgata, but I make the turn onto the Garden State Parkway, tossing coins into the bin, and continue on. On a night like tonight, with traffic moderate but not overwhelming, this drive takes between two and three hours. If I waited until tomorrow, it would take five. It's why Katy and Emily left this morning.

The cottage in Stone Harbor isn't much of a cottage to my mind. At nearly three thousand square feet it's a large house, but my in-laws, when they gifted us with it for our wedding, called it a cottage. Then again, their house reminds me of Malfoy Manor, so I reckon it's all relative.

When I finally pull into the driveway, it's half ten. There are no lights on inside, but Katy may have gone to bed early, despite teasing me. I look forward to waking her. Hopping from the car, I pop the trunk to grab my overnight bag. The chirp of the lock sounds preternaturally loud in the humid air.

There's something off about this, something that's making the hairs on the back of my neck rise.

Then it strikes me: Katy's car isn't here. We don't tend to use the garage, since it's a detached building in the back, and park side-by-side in the driveway. My car is the only one in the drive.

Wary now, I walk around my car to the passenger side. Unlocking it, I shove my bag onto the floor under the dash. From the glove box, I take my gun; from the small of my back, I pull my wand. I don't normally have both in hand, but this is different. Situations like this are why I practice casting left-handed, gun in my right. I tried it the other way round and had too many wild shots.

The houses on either side, far enough away from ours to offer some privacy, are lit as I would expect with televisions and lamps. Sometimes I hear a snatch of noise from an open window, but more often I hear the steady drone of air conditioning. Beneath that is the sound of the ocean.

Nothing from inside my house. At the very least, I should hear the air conditioner.

There is no activity at any of the windows, no sign of any sort of struggle in front of the door, no sign that my wife and daughter ever arrived. Emily's fond of beheading blooming flowers right now and manages to behead them all in less than one minute, then laughs when I "revive" them with my wand. All the flowers at the entry are still in one piece.

Fear coiling in my gut, I cast a barely-audible _Alohomora_ to open the door. Pushing it with my foot, I enter my home slowly, gun raised and wand ready.

The house is stuffy and hot. If Katy had ever arrived, the air conditioner would be on. If that weren't working, she would have at least opened a few windows to air it out. Neither of those happened.

Nausea slips inside the fear.

I methodically work my way through the house, starting in the front room. Other than discovering we need to clean the closets more thoroughly, I find nothing. Katy and Emily never arrived. No one has been in the house since we were here for Memorial Day.

Heart pounding in my chest, I return to the kitchen. Laying my wand and gun side-by-side on the table, I grab my cell phone to call my in-laws. Maybe Katy decided to visit them and forgot to tell me. Doubtful, but possible.

Raking a hand through my hair, I dial my in-laws. There's no love lost between us since they feel Katy married beneath herself by marrying me. I've often suspected my father-in-law ran a background check on me before my wedding because every so often he'll slip "St. Brutus" into conversation, which only annoys me and makes me glad I finally asked the Minister to fix my Muggle records after Matthew first mentioned the place.

"Yes, Harry?" my mother-in-law answers, voice carefully neutral. If I had never heard the animation in her voice when she talks to Katy and Emily, I would have thought her incapable of any warmer tone of voice than the one she uses with me.

"Sorry to call so late, Jennifer," I begin, nearly running my words together in my anxiousness. I take a deep breath. If I don't slow down, she'll dismiss me and hang up. "Did Katy bring Emily by today?"

Jennifer sniffs once in dismissal. "No, Katherine did not." Another point of contention: Katy's name.

_Fucking hell, where can they be?_

I must hold my silence too long, running horrible scenarios through my head of Katy and Emily hurt or dying, because Jennifer drawls, "Did you lose them, Harry?"

"No, Jennifer, I did not," I retort, injecting cool British reserve into my voice.

I can hear her smile like a shark sensing blood. "Maybe my daughter finally came to her senses." A short, sharp laugh. "You sure there was no note?"

The only thing I can be glad for is that Katy has no idea the animosity between her parents and I. Even before the background check, Matthew and Jennifer Scott never liked me. I'd like to think it would have been the same with any man seriously dating their only daughter, but I think they just took an instant dislike to me for some reason. That dislike deepened when I joined the Philadelphia police force, even though I've made their daughter happy and given them a granddaughter. Were I still in Britain, I would suspect them of having Death Eater leanings despite being thoroughly Muggle.

"Thank you for your lack of assistance, Jennifer," I retort calmly. I want to add, _Give my worst to Matthew as well_ , but resist.

She barks a short laugh and hangs up. Despite the animosity, there's something reassuringly normal about it.

But the conversation leaves me where I was: alone in Stone Harbor with no idea where my wife and daughter are.

Huffing a breath to blow my fringe off my forehead, I dial Katy's cell number. With each ring, my breath cools more until I feel frozen. It goes to voice mail. I listen to her greeting, cheerful and bright and so very much like her, curling my fingers around the phone in a caress.

When I first met Katy, it was on the train into Manhattan. She'd been reading a book, tapping her foot in such a way that it was either nervousness or restless habit. Just outside Penn Station, the train unexpectedly jerked to a half. Her book flew from her hands to land at my feet. I picked it up, glancing briefly at the cover to discern it was a romance novel. She held out her hand and politely asked for the return of her book. I looked up, met her eyes and began to drown.

It suddenly felt as if all my time around the world had been to prepare me to meet her, so strong was the sense of _rightness_. I stammered a clumsy dinner request, which she accepted with a blushing smile. I can't remember now where we ate or what, just that she took me back to her hotel room -- she was in Manhattan for a shopping trip -- and I spent a heavenly night with her. I was no virgin and neither was she but it felt very much like a first time for both of us.

I returned to Philadelphia with her and found a flat while she returned to her parents' house. She was eighteen to my nineteen and had taken a year off before starting college at Bryn Mawr. I entered the police academy, planning to stay rather than move on again in a couple weeks as had been my habit.

We married quickly a bit less than six months after our spring meeting, on Halloween in 2000. Her parents were furious, fully intending not to talk to her again. That is until she told them she was pregnant two years later. Though that pregnancy ended in a miscarriage, her parents came back into her life. I would say our lives, but that would imply they welcomed me.

Emily's birth on the Fourth of July three years ago actually improved my relationship with my in-laws. From the start, I'd told Katy I was magical. She was fascinated and amused in turns by my abilities -- though I told her nothing of Voldemort -- and so was not surprised when Emily began performing feats of childhood wandless magic. It, thankfully, hasn't happened around Michael and Jennifer, but now that she's old enough to start to understand, we've told Emily not to do the "magic things" around her grandparents.

Katy's voicemail beeps. Voice choked, I say, "Call me, Katy. I love you." I snap my phone shut before I break down. I have an incredibly bad feeling about this, the type of which Hermione would roll her eyes at but follow me nonetheless.

Hopping up, I pace nervously. I'm sure my hair is utterly atrocious by now given how often I've been running my hands through it. Tucking my cell into the pocket of my jeans, I head upstairs, climbing them two-by-two.

Straight ahead at the top of the stairs is the guest bath. To the right are three bedrooms and the master suite is to the left. I turn right. Emily's room is the rearmost and most colorful. Though illusory, I can almost imagine I still smell the fresh paint from the day Katy and I painted. She'd been six months pregnant with Emily, though we didn't know it was Emily and not Evan, unwilling to find out the baby's gender before birth. Because of that, we went wild with colors. Running a hand along the purple wall, I smile. The purple, red, green and gold walls are a far cry from the sterile white of Aunt Petunia and from the tasteful pastels of Jennifer Scott's home.

My smile turns a bit lascivious as I remember christening the completed room right on the new rug. A tug in my groin accompanies the memory of Katy rising over me, a gloriously pregnant blonde goddess I was more than willing to surrender myself to.

My watch beeps. Midnight. Still no sign of Katy or Emily or a phone call. And it's now Emily's third birthday.

Flipping open my phone again, I call 911, give my badge number and ask to be connected to the New Jersey State Police. A quick conversation with the dispatch does absolutely nothing to reassure me. There have been no accidents with unidentified females matching Katy and Emily's descriptions, no sign of her car, abandoned or otherwise. Gorge rising, I thank her and call the local police. That call is just as nerve-wracking as it provides me with the same answer.

My next thought sends me practically jumping down the stairs for my wand. I have biological material from both of them here, I can do a magical trace.

My cell rings.

I look at it, lying in my hand as innocent as a coiled serpent.

Caller ID reads _Unlisted_.

Licking my lips once, I flip the phone open on the fourth ring.

"Hello?"

"Harry!" Katy shouts. I can hear the tears in her voice, then tension. The silence behind her is unnaturally quiet.

"Katy, where are you?" I try to keep my voice even, as close to neutral as I can manage. If I don't I will break down and that won't help anyone.

She sniffles. I hear whispers near the phone. When she speaks again, it sounds forced. "Harry, you need to let Pike go."

My mind blanks. Pike is the dealer we were tracking for over a year, but finally caught last night on drug-related charges. When my brain restarts, I realize Katy and Emily have been kidnapped, used as either leverage or bait against me.

My worst fears have come to life, though I never expected it to happen now. It's what I had feared during the long fight with Voldemort, not while minding my own business and essentially living as a Muggle.

Then I realize I can hear Emily crying. The sound rips at my heart. She shouldn't be crying on her birthday.

"I can't do that, Katy," I whisper.

I barely catch her whispered, "I know," before the phone is ripped from her. A flat male voice hisses, "Twenty four hours, Potter," before terminating the call.

I stare at my phone once again, gently closing it. I want to toss it across the room in frustration, but that won't bring them back. I want to find the bastards who have dared to touch my family and flay them alive before watching them bleed to death. I want. . . I want my family back.

Heels of my hands pressed hard to my eyes, I choke back a sob.

_Don't fall apart now._

Several deep breaths help.

Two strides take me to the house phone. I call my office and report Katy and Emily's kidnapping, knowing the FBI will be called in. Knowing I'm on autopilot, I ask for a trace on the last call to my cell and am reminded cell calls can't be traced, though they can be triangulated. I hang up after declining -- chances are they've scrambled that call and are nowhere near where the call will appear to be from. I then turn all the lights off with a flick of my wand and lock the door. Unwilling to waste another three hours on the Atlantic City Expressway, I shrink the car to pocket-sized and Apparate home.

I know I should sleep since I've been awake for nearly twenty-four hours after having only two hours sleep, but I'm too wired on anxiety and anger. Instead, I open the warded cabinet in our bedroom, the only thing I've kept from Katy.

I don't know how she'd handle the knowledge her husband is a murderer. Of course, it wasn't called that when I killed Voldemort, but that doesn't change facts. From the cabinet I pull my Invisibility Cloak, several bracelets Ron and Hermione helped me impregnate with single-use shield charms, and Voldemort's wand. I never wanted the last item but neither did I want the Death Eaters to search for it and use it as a rally point to regroup. I'm able to use it for darker spells only because of the compatible core.

My cell rings again. It's been three hours since I called the office, so this call doesn't surprise me: they gave me time to come home.

I flip the phone open, unsurprised when my supervisor doesn't even offer a greeting. "Are you on your way in?"

"Gathering some personal effects, then I'll be there," I reply, stuffing the Cloak in my pocket.

"In twenty?"

"Yes."

From the bathrooms, I gather Katy's and Emily's hairbrushes. If I need to do a magical trace, I'll need their hair. Swallowing hard, I also acknowledge the worst-case scenario: DNA identification of the bodies.

Outside, I pull my car from my pocket and enlarge it. Fifteen minutes later I'm back at the garage under the Roundhouse, the police headquarters.

The place is wide awake, several officers milling about while Tony is leaning on my desk, arms crossed, waiting for me. A smile ghosts my mouth. One of their own has been threatened and they're here to help. It's comforting in a way.

"Potter!"

I shift my eyes from my desk to my supervisor. Captain Andy Pierson is a solidly-built man is his late forties and always makes me think of Mad-Eye Moody, but with all his limbs. He waves me into his office. I follow silently, shutting the door behind me, and take a seat.

"Harry, I'll understand if you want some personal time."

I look up, shocked, from my absent perusal of his desk. "No, sir, not yet."

He eyes me carefully then nods sharply once. "This is in regards to the Pike case?"

"It seems to be," I reply slowly, shifting my mind from victim to cop. "Though I don't know why so much effort would be put forth for him. He was, while large-volume, a lower level than they'd normally rescue."

We'd dealt with this group before. Three years ago, just before I'd been promoted to detective. The man we'd thought second-in-command was caught. We later discovered, after he'd escaped, that he was further down the food chain than we thought, making all our intelligence on that group suspect. Given that, I reckon we could have misjudged Pike's importance as well.

"This is the first time they've used this tactic," Captain Pierson murmurs, steepling his fingers under his chin.

"Forgive me if I don't rejoice in leading the way," I reply dryly.

The Captain snorts. "Given your account and timeline, we think they were taken from the Parkway. We've got Jersey involved, but the FBI will be here within the six hour window."

I can only nod, my emotions swinging as wildly as a pendulum. Fear coagulates in my throat, threatening to choke me. Swallowing hard, I meet the Captain's eyes.

"I'll understand if you can't do this, Harry," he says softly. I don't reply. "It's your girl's birthday today, isn't it?"

_Fuck, don't fall apart._ I nod tightly. "Yes, sir, it is." Swallowing again, I say, "No, sir, I need to do this."

He studies my face, noting the exhaustion, I'm sure, but also the determination. I've worked through pain before, but nothing quite like this.

"Very well," he says at last. "I will pull you away if I feel you can't do it any longer."

"Noted, sir."

He stands, as do I from reflex. We say nothing more as we exit his office. Conversations fade as all eyes shift to me. Normally it's something I hate, the very thing I ran from England over, but I don't find it bothersome in the least at the moment.

Somewhere in the quiet a phone rings, breaking the silence. Feet shuffle, slowly resuming normal business.

Tony walks up behind me, laying a hand on my shoulder. "Catch a few z's, Harry. We'll hold it down until you wake."

I want to rage at him, demand to know how he thinks I can sleep when my family has been stolen, when they're in danger. But I don't. I know he means well, that he's thinking of what's best, not easiest.

I nod and hand him my cell. "They've called on this before."

"I've got you, Harry," he says, shoving me in the direction of the overnight room.

It's a room I haven't used often, and even more rarely since Emily was born. Nothing has changed other than the pillows might be more flat. Kicking off my shoes, I lay on the cot. It's too warm to use the blankets -- air conditioning for the Roundhouse isn't a priority despite the need to keep cops happy. The soundproofing is good enough that I only hear a susurrus of voices and phones.

I can't sleep. Nearly an hour later, I'm still staring at the ceiling, hands folded on my chest. I'm the fucking Boy Who Lived to Defeat Voldemort. How can I be so helpless now? If I contacted Hermione and Ron, I'm sure there would be a magical solution to this, some way of finding the bad guy and rescuing the hostages.

_Yes, because that worked so well for the first years Voldemort killed, didn't it?_

"Fuck," I hiss, twisting and punching the pillow.

I don't _want_ to remember the siege of Hogwarts and the people, the _children_ , I failed. Everyone assured me it wasn't my fault, no one suspected the Muggleborn Justin Finch-Fletchley, but that's no consolation to me or the eleven families missing children.

Cursing again, I sit up. Elbows on my knees, I drive my hands through my hair until I lace my fingers together at the back of my neck. I'm suddenly craving a Dreamless Sleep potion.

A quick knock sounds on the door before it eases open. I look up as Tony pokes his head through.

"I didn't wake you, did I?"

I scoff. "Hell, no. My brain won't shut off."

He enters the room, closing the door softly. Tony DiMarino is physically nothing like Ron -- dark and swarthy to Ron's pale skin and red hair, short and stocky to Ron's thin and lanky -- but the friendship is similar. We met at the Academy, graduated the same day. Though we worked in different precincts, he in vice and me on the streets, we became detectives within a month of each other. It was only natural we work together, much as Ron and I might have had we become Aurors.

Tony takes a seat on the cot opposite me. He shifts uncomfortably before finally speaking. "We'll find them, Nigel."

I smile bittersweetly at his use of my nickname. Though Tony's nickname is Guido for his Italian heritage, I don't use it. I don't mind, however, being referred to by the moniker bestowed upon me in my first month on the job -- my uncomfortable formality, coupled with my accent, amused my fellow officers. Hence the nickname Nigel, which implied to them a very stodgy, upper-crust butler.

I don't want to break down. I _can't_ break down. Though I feel on edge, I have to be there for Emily and Katy.

Releasing the back of my neck, I straighten. "I know." _I just hope it's not too late_ is left unsaid.

"The Feds are here," he says.

I nod and stand, slipping my shoes back on. "Give me five minutes." Tony gives me a searching look before nodding and leaving. I walk over to the small bath area, lean over the sink and splash cold water on my face. It helps a bit, reducing the worst of the mental fog.

"You've dealt with things just as bad," I tell myself in the mirror. My red-ringed eyes are accusatory. "It's not your fault." And though I say it out loud, I don't believe it.

Cursing, I dry my face and exit to meet the Feds.

Before I make it to the conference room the FBI is in, though, I hear the ringing of a phone once again. Though every phone in the office sounds alike, though there are dozens of phones here, I know it's mine. I pause. Tony, seated at my desk, meets my eyes and nods.

The ringing stops just before it would go to voicemail. I've no chance to hope I've dodged anything, though, when it rings again.

Willing my legs not to shake, I cross the room to my desk. Tony scrambles out of my chair to allow me to sit. I fall into my chair more than gracefully sit, take a deep breath, then pick up the receiver on the fourth ring.

"Potter."

"When are you releasing Pike?" the voice demands without preamble.

I look up and meet Captain Pierson's eyes. "We aren't releasing Pike."

There's a brief pause, then with words almost a pitying sigh, "Your loss, Potter."

Before I can puzzle that out, I hear Katy in the background chanting, "No, please, no, not her, no...."

My gut churns. I never thought they'd harm Emily.

The gunshot is so loud that I jump in my chair, startled.

I can't think, I can't breathe. _What the fuck just happened?_

Then I hear Emily. "Mommy, wake up."

_Katy?_

Before I can process anything, the voice returns and growls, "Your little girl is next."

The dial tone reverberates in my head.

Tony takes the receiver from me, replacing it in the cradle.

I look up, frozen beyond shock, and whisper, "They killed Katy."


	2. Chapter 2: Fulcrum

  
Author's notes: **chapter summary:** Desperate times call for desperate measures when Harry finds someone unexpected involved in his wife and daughter’s disappearance.  
 **chapter notes:** Google was an invaluable resource for location scouting. I love Google.  


* * *

**Breaking Point  
Chapter 2: Fulcrum**

"They killed Katy."

One of the techs threw off his headphones at the sound of the gunshot, but continued the trace. When Tony hangs up the phone, the tech looks over, pained, and says, "American and Porter."

I only distantly note it.

I feel frozen.

Tony yanks me out of my chair, dragging me to the lifts. Voices echo around me as if miles away. I barely notice Tony guiding me up a staircase and onto the roof. There's an unoccupied helo pad and a few other things here, but it's essentially deserted.

"Let it out, Harry."

_Let it out? What the fuck? Doesn't he understand that if I let it out I could destroy the building?_

"Do I have to punch you?" He's standing with his arms crossed, glaring at me.

At last, something cracks.

"Katy's dead," I rasp, anger and pain choking me.

I sink to my knees and sob, covering my face with my hands.

I remember the conversation I had with her earlier and the loss feels even more acute. I won't be able to wake her with a shag, wake her with a kiss, wake her ever again. I won't feel her fingers on the back of my neck, massaging away the day's tension. I won't hear her reading to Emily, performing a different voice for each character so well that Emily banned me from reading to her.

And they killed her in front of Emily.

Pain rockets through me, more than I've ever felt before, even at the loss of Ron's parents, Molly and Arthur, who were the closest thing to parents I've known.

I need to destroy something. I need to cause pain to something other than myself. I want to make someone else hurt.

Wiping my face quickly, I look up at Tony. He's trying to look impassive, but I can see the cracks in his facade as well as my own, the biting of his lower lip giving him away despite his arms still crossed manfully over his chest.

"I'm going to destroy them," I tell him. I have to get some sort of handle on the emotions inside me or I'll explode, either with accidental magic or incandescent rage.

He holds my gaze for several moments, then nods. "Understandable." Cocking his head to one side, he adds, "But, as a cop, I didn't hear that."

_Doesn't matter. I can do it without being caught._

In companionable silence, we exit the roof and descend the stairs. No longer am I frozen; instead, I'm simmering just under a boil. They've hurt me, torn right to the heart of what I had vowed to protect. To describe what I'm feeling as anger would be too tame.

Captain Pierson awaits me at the foot of the stairs. He glares at Tony for a moment, but Tony merely raises an eyebrow, crosses his arms and leans against the wall. The Captain sighs.

"Potter?" Captain Pierson says. "Harry?"

"I'm staying with this, Captain. I _need_ to now."

He tucks his hands into his pockets, studying me. I wish I knew what he saw, if he could sense the rage and determination vibrating inside me. At last, he murmurs, "Unofficially. Officially, you're on leave." "Understood, sir," I reply, careful not to allow the gratitude leech into my voice.

We reenter the office, where I once again bring everyone to a halt. This time, phones go unanswered, conversations are dropped mid-word, coffee mugs are held in mid-air. Frozen, just as I felt.

The conference room door, which had been cracked open, now opens fully to reveal a war room. A tall, thin, sandy-haired man nods at me. "Harry Potter?" I nod back. "We've got a few questions."

Glancing at Tony, he quirks a corner of his mouth up as if to say there's no way he'd leave me alone with the Feds, and we enter the room.

There are four Agents, one of whom is a woman who, physically, is a cross between Hermione and Ginny and it thoroughly disturbs me. Blinking, I look around the room. In addition to the Agent who ushered me into the room, there are two sitting on the far side of the table from me. One is an African-American man in his thirties and built like a runner, the other couldn't be more stereotypically nerdy than if he had a pocket-protector for his white button-down. They introduce themselves as Agents Johnson, Kosta, Sikes and Moore.

Johnson gestures for Tony and I to sit down. Tony declines, but I sit. Almost immediately, I begin bouncing my leg up and down to burn off nervous energy. Katy would have given me a sidelong glare and rested a hand on my knee. I blink rapidly at that thought, trying to stave off tears or a scream.

Kosta reviews the time line with me again, obviously based on the information I gave when I was still in Stone Harbor without much new information. I have nothing to add, just a restless feeling that this is a waste of my time.

Sikes asks me to provide further information about our usual routine on this weekend. When I only growl, Tony steps in. He explains that it's common knowledge we have a house in Stone Harbor, a gift from my in-laws, where we spend the Fourth of July weekend, with the exception of the year Emily was born. My hands tighten on the arms of the chair at that.

_She's only three._

Moore has a list of questions in front of him, but sets them aside. Instead, he meets my gaze directly, putting me on edge. "Do you have any enemies, Detective Potter?"

"You think this is personal? Unrelated to the case?" I can feel the magic rising inside me like sap in spring. I've suppressed it for so long that I can't decide if the sensation is welcome or a hindrance. Almost unwillingly, my eyes are drawn to the board. My picture is there, as well as Tony's. Linked to mine are Katy's -- with an "X" through it, making me want to choke -- and Emily's, her sunny smile adding to my guilt.

Moore glances at Kosta, then turns back to me and answers. "It has some elements of being personal."

"You fucking think?" Tony spits. The chair shakes as his grip tightens on the back of it.

"Detective DiMarino, that's not helping," Kosta murmurs, shifting in her chair.

Tony scoffs, but I understand his frustration. When I speak, my voice is low and controlled. "Do you have any more information you can give me? I have nothing more for you. Now, if you'll excuse me, my wife is dead and my daughter is still missing."

With that, I rise from the chair. Tony exits the room in front of me, allowing me to be the one to slam the door closed hard enough to rattle every pane of glass. It's oddly satisfying, all things considered. I can hear the door open almost immediately, but I don't care.

Tony interrogates the tech who traced the call to South Philly and obtains a physical address on South American Street. Though I shouldn't accompany anyone to the address -- well, if everyone knew what was good for them, they wouldn't be near me on my trip there -- no one protests. Johnson and Sikes hitch a ride with us.

I desperately want to draw my wand as Tony drives to the address. It feels as if static electricity is built up inside me just waiting for me to reach for a doorknob to spark. I can only hope that whatever we find on American Street doesn't act as the catalyst.

There are several cars blocking the street already. By the number of officers at the scene, I already know that neither Katy nor Emily are there. Had they been, I would have been called immediately, as would the Feds. And the coroner, were it Katy.

Tony parks the car in the middle of the street, not caring if he has to push aside some of the neighbors to do so. I always let Tony drive when we're around town because I've never developed that hyper-aggressive attitude that seems to be a requirement to drive within the Philadelphia city limits. The balance works because Tony says he's never seen someone drive so carelessly at high speed on highways and still live. If only he knew about the brooms.

The four of us pour out of the car silently. The neighbors part for us like we were Moses. Though I'm usually asked a few questions at a crime scene -- no one wants idle curiosity to be mistaken for snitching -- this scene is unnaturally quiet. It could be the oppressive heat lingering in the sunset but I doubt it.

It then occurs to me that whomever we're dealing with didn't give me that promised twenty-four hours. We can trust them with nothing.

The house in question is like any other on the small street. There is an anemic window air conditioning unit laboring in an upstairs window, where it certainly is doing no good even before the cops entered given the large crack in the upper pane of the transom window. Trash bags beside the front steps block access to the street-level basement windows. Black wrought-iron bars cover the ground-level windows.

I force myself to take a deep breath. I'm no help to anyone, least of all Emily, if I can't control myself. I'm no longer that hot-headed fifteen-year-old running off without complete information. That doesn't mean he's still not part of me, but he isn't the one running the show. Another deep breath and fisted hands help to calm me.

"Is there an alley?" I glance sideways and ask Tony.

He scratches the back of his head, studying the street. "Not for car traffic here, only foot traffic." It reduces the chance they used the back door if they couldn't pull a car up to it. Doesn't eliminate the possibility, but reduces it.

At this point, I have no idea what I'm feeling. Walking up those steps into that house just exacerbates the combination of emotions churning inside me.

As soon as I enter the front room, I smell it. Blood. Fresh.

Turning slowly to my right, it's all I can do not to vomit. I've been to plenty of crime scenes, seen bodies in grotesque situations and conditions, but nothing could prepare me for seeing the blood on the floor, wall and spatters on the ceiling and knowing it's almost certainly my wife's even if her body isn't here.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" I turn my startled gaze from the wall to the homicide detective supervising the scene as he stalks toward me, forcing me into the hall. "You shouldn't be here at all, Potter."

I don't reply to that. I know I shouldn't be here. Pierson knows I shouldn't be here. Tony knows I shouldn't be here. But they both know I _have to_ be here. We stare at each other long enough that the detective sighs, resigned to my presence.

Only then do I quietly tell him about the hairbrushes on my desk. Understanding what they mean, he curses, nods and returns to the scene.

Given the way the officers are lingering, unconcerned, in the other rooms downstairs, I assume there isn't another detectible scene on the ground floor. Biting my lower lip, I head upstairs. The stairs themselves seem to close in on me as the heat only increases with each step.

There are fewer people up here, but what I find even more strange is how they're avoiding the room at the end of the hall. In just the handful of seconds I've been at the head of the stairs, three officers have walked by and not one person has even looked into the other room. I don't call attention to it. Instead, I work my way down the hall and slip into that room.

As I cross the threshold, I understand. The chill over my skin indicates wards. This isn't strictly a Muggle crime scene.

Then I see him, one of the last people I ever expected to see again, especially in the United States: Draco Malfoy. He's been stripped to the waist, tied to a chair, and beaten. He hasn't noticed me yet, his eyes covered by white-blond fringe hanging over his down-turned face.

I don't know what to say. This entire case, the kidnapping, Katy's murder, all of it has just become much bigger than a drug gang wanting a dealer back. By Malfoy's presence, I can only assume that some of what's happening is personal, against me specifically. Therefore, though I didn't pull the trigger myself, some part of Katy's murder lies in my hands. I brought her into my life and didn't disclose all the risks.

I must have made some noise, such as a sharp intake of breath, because Malfoy looks up sharply at me through that shaggy fringe.

"I should have known _you'd_ be here," he says, then spits out a mouthful of blood.

Crossing the room, I take in his condition. Someone worked him over like they were creating artwork. His bruises are from more than one beating, some old enough to be shaded yellow, but some new enough to still be sullenly weeping blood where his skin has split. Given how he's wheezing, I can only assume he also has at least one broken rib.

"What's going on, Malfoy?" I demand, standing in front of him closely enough that he has to tip his head back to meet my eyes.

If he were a cat, he'd hiss at me. Instead, his smile, though missing two teeth, turns feline. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

Anger flares inside me. Were he thinking straight, Malfoy wouldn't try to further antagonize me, but no one ever accused Malfoy of being able to think through the consequences. The widening of his eyes in surprise when I pull out my wand delights me.

"There are Muggles here, Potter," he protests.

My mouth stretches in a rictus masquerading as a smile. "I don't particularly care."

I'm not the first to perform magic here today, despite the presence of Muggles, so his complaint -- _acting as warning in his mind perhaps?_ \-- won't help him. I wave my wand over my left hand and whisper a spell. A small mound of salt appears. Tucking my wand back into its holster, which then turns invisible once more thanks to a purchase in Singapore during my world tour, I close in on Malfoy. His eyes track my movements, puzzlement creasing his forehead.

"I have some questions for you, Malfoy," I tell him, my tone conversational to mask the murderous thoughts in my head. Given the abrasions on his wrists and the condition of his bruising, he's been tied for at least one day, maybe two, and therefore didn't have a direct hand in Katy's murder. It's the only thing keeping him alive right now.

"I don't have to answer any fucking questions from you," he retorts, spitting blood in my face.

Still smiling my terrible smile, I wipe my face clean with my right hand then straddle his knees. He grunts as his thighs strain under my weight.

"Fuck, lose a stone, Potter," he complains.

I consider asking if he thinks I'll be in his lap often enough for losing a stone to matter, but bite back the retort. Instead, I lick the first two fingers of my right hand and run them through the salt cupped in my left palm.

"You will talk, Malfoy," I say, my tone almost abnormally pleasant.

He realizes what I'm going to do a half-second before I touch him. He starts to shout curses that devolve into screams as I rub my fingers into one of the weeping wounds on his chest. He tries to buck me off, but has no leverage to do so.

When his shouts fade to pained whimpers, I ask, "Where is my daughter?"

"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about!"

I use salt on the lash over his stomach this time.

He sobs pitifully when his screams cease. The silencing charms woven into the wards must be holding because no one investigates Malfoy's screams.

Leaning in, I ask again, "Where is my daughter?"

His eyes, though red-rimmed, are defiant and very typical of the Malfoy I knew. "I. Don't. Know."

I sigh and shift so my knee is between his thighs. He doesn't mistake this for sexual at all. I lick my palm and coat it with salt. Holding it up, I murmur, "I wonder how this would feel rubbed down your chest."

Malfoy glares back until I follow through on my threat, grinding my knee into his groin at the same time. His screams are horrific. In other part of the city his screams wouldn't matter. This neighborhood, however, is still upscale enough that, without the silencing charms, his screams would draw attention.

I have nothing left to lose. Torturing Malfoy isn't providing the righteous satisfaction I was hoping for, though. Instead, I feel incredibly detached from what I'm doing. A part of me knows I should be worried by my disassociation, the rest advises taking advantage of it then breaking down after I find Emily.

Malfoy dissolves into hitching sobs.

I climb off his lap, Vanishing the remainder of the salt with a whispered spell.

"Where is my daughter?"

"A warehouse by the river," Malfoy rasps.

"Which river?" Both the Schuylkill and Delaware have warehouses on them at various points so "the river" isn't helpful.

"I don't know."

Thrusting my hand into his hair, I jerk his head back. I bend down until my face is mere inches from his. "Which river?"

He sniffles, blood and snot running from his nose and sweat pouring down his face. He's broken and I take no pleasure in the fact. "I don't know," he repeats.

Holding his gaze, I demand, "Northern Liberties or Gray's Ferry?" Each of those is an area close to a river and, in parts, heavily dotted with warehouses. Malfoy doesn't reply and I get no impression via Legilimency. He either doesn't know or has managed to lock it up tight in his mind.

Disgusted, I release him and step back. Turning to the door, I pull my wand, intending to drop the wards and Muggle-repelling charms. Malfoy shifts behind me, scraping the chair against the bare floor.

"Your little girl is cute," he offers.

I don't know if it's ice flowing through my veins or hot blood, but I stop in my tracks, hand tightening painfully around my wand, my head echoing with the pounding of my heart. Other than with Voldemort, this is the first time _Avada Kedavra_ has tempted me. I stand utterly still, trying my damnedest to keep myself under control. It feels as if I'm a lightning rod between the pressure of my magic and the oppressive heat and humidity, that if I'm not careful, I'll generate a storm right here in this room.

No one, especially me, needs Draco Malfoy to be the spark that sets me off.

"Zabini," he hisses, moaning in pain with another shift of the chair.

_Blaise Zabini?_ He's _the bastard behind this?_

But before I can curse out loud or interrogate Malfoy again, a fuzzy brown object near the door catches my eye. As I get closer, I see it's a teddy bear.

My heart contracts painfully and my stomach lurches as I pick the bear up. He's about ten inches tall and dressed in a Phillies uniform, "Potter" stitched above the "7" on the back. The bear is named Jimmy and it's Emily's favorite animal, the uniform custom made by Katy based on my old Quidditch jersey.

Kneeling on the floor, I have to fight back tears yet again. Without this reminder, I could have walked out of this room and left my humanity here. Malfoy didn't deserve what I did to him, but I'm not going to apologize. Even if he didn't pull the trigger, he's part of the reason Katy's dead and my little girl is missing.

Gritting my teeth, I clutch the teddy bear and release the wards.

Tony must have been right outside. He steps into the room and looks around, both puzzled and pissed off. He's been my friend and partner long enough to realize strange things happen when I'm around, but rooms suddenly appearing have to be near the top of his "what the fuck was that, Harry?" list. He spots me on the floor clutching the bear at almost the same time Malfoy spits blood onto the floor again.

"Harry?" He says nothing else, all his questions wrapped in the tone of voice used for my name.

I stand slowly, feeling much older than my nearly twenty-eight years. Jerking my head in his direction, I growl, "That's Draco Malfoy. We know each other from way back. He's involved. I didn't beat him." Tortured him a bit, but didn't beat him. And I know Malfoy won't mention a thing.

"And the bear?" he asks, softening his voice.

I meet Tony's eyes and he flinches. That alone surprises me because there isn't much in this world that makes Tony DiMarino wary. "It's Emily's."

"Fuck," he mutters, dragging a hand down his face, shaking his head slowly.

"Can someone untie me?" Malfoy asks, voice strengthening yet still hoarse from screaming -- and just as whiny as it ever was despite his position.

Tony glances at Malfoy dismissively, then calls for a uniform to take him to the hospital and into custody. He'll get the finest treatment since he's involved in the murder of an officer's wife. The thought makes me want to smile. The department has been on edge since the killing of an officer back in May. Malfoy won't have it easy.

"Take it and go, Harry," Tony says softly. I raise an eyebrow at him. "This is beyond personal. I'll do what I can, but go."

I want to say thank you but don't know how. Mere words aren't enough. Despite his olive-colored skin, his cheeks pink with embarrassment at my expression. He grunts and waves me off before I can figure out what to say.

I hitch a ride back to the Roundhouse with a uniform leaving the scene. We don't talk, though I know by his sidelong glances he has a list of questions for me. Instead, I stare out the windshield.

Night is falling. With it comes the hope of cooler temperatures and the anticipation of fireworks. Emily is both delighted and afraid of the fireworks. Who is going to hold her tonight when they go off? Choking on a sudden sob, I shove a fist into my mouth and turn to look out the side window. The officer sniffs suspiciously but stays silent.

He pulls into the garage several minutes later. As I place my hand on the knob to open the door, he clears his throat. I turn to look at him over my shoulder.

"Detective Potter," he begins. _Damn, he looks so young. Was I ever that young? No, I don't think I was allowed to be that young after hearing the prophecy._ "Um, just wanted to let you know that, um, if you needed anything, just ask." He blows his breath out in something like a huff. "You've always been good to the rookies and we've been talking about it and what's happened to you is really shitty and if we can help, just let us know, m'kay?"

I blink and turn more fully toward him. After stammering through the first sentence, he sped through the second, and it takes me a moment to decipher his words. At last, I swallow the lump in my throat and reply, "I will. Thank you."

Then I escape the car.

It's not that I don't appreciate the support, but I've never quite learned how to accept it gracefully and use it. Even accepting Ron and Hermione's help was hard and they had been there through damn near everything with me.

Though I should go back to my desk just in case there's new information awaiting me, I can't. I can call Tony later, though I'm sure he will call me if there is a break of some sort from the Muggle police work. In the meantime, I have ritual magic to perform for the first time in a long while.

The garage feels like an oven in which exhaust has been baking all day. Between my own emotions choking me and the heat of the day playing havoc with the air quality, there's a haze in the air and over my eyes. I feel like I'm existing in a parallel world once again, something akin to the worst of my post-Voldemort disaffection eating away at my sanity. I put my _family_ in danger this time, not just friends, and the terrible knowledge is stifling me.

Settling into the driver's seat of my car without quite knowing how I got here, I stare straight ahead. Though I know I shouldn't drive home in this condition, I do anyway. Once again sitting in my driveway, it takes five minutes to gather the courage to get out and enter the house.

We bought the house a month before we married. Matthew and Jennifer were so positive I was worthless, both literally and figuratively, that after I paid cash for the house, Matthew tried to convince Katy I'd stolen the money. I'd been honest with Katy about my inheritance, but she chose not to tell her parents I had as much money as they did, merely brushed aside their concerns that their new son-in-law was a thief. I reckon she didn't do me any favors with that in the long run, but my in-laws don't need to know everything. Katy appreciated not having to reduce her standard of living, as she often teased me, but the money didn't matter to her beyond that.

Nausea churns in my gut again, the image of that blood-soaked room flashing before my eyes. _Her standard of living doesn't matter now._ I lean forward against the steering wheel, breath hissing from between clenched teeth, as I attempt to keep myself under control.

I have to call Jennifer and Matthew once again. I have to tell them their daughter is dead. I can put that off for a while until I find Katy, or even pawn the job off on a homicide detective, but I can't delay talking to them forever, no matter how much I wish it. I have to find Emily before I can stomach calling my in-laws. I have to find Emily, period.

Clutching Jimmy, I walk up to the front door. Near the door are a few beheaded flowers I haven't "restored" yet. I close my eyes and turn away.

A deep breath helps, then another. It takes me several minutes, but I finally feel I can enter the house. Then I open my eyes and notice the door is ajar.

The curses that roil through my mind can't begin to describe how furious I am.

With the same care as when I searched our home in Stone Harbor, I pull my gun and wand before I ease open the door. It sticks halfway, as if something or someone is blocking it. I stop pushing for a moment, then shove my shoulder into the door. It crashes to the wall and I hear ceramic shatter and wood splinter. Spinning around the door with my gun ready, I find a broken vase and table, but no person as I had thought.

The table and vase were not behind the door when I left the house after returning from Stone Harbor. Someone else has been in my home in the last few hours.

Though the crash of the door would have alerted someone to my presence, I close it as silently as I can and lock it. If there is someone else in the house, I don't want to make it easy for them to run by leaving the door open.

Panning the entry, the only thing out of place is the now-destroyed table and vase. I turn to the left to enter the parlor -- _living room_ , Katy's voice reminds me in my head -- flip the overhead light on and stop cold.

The entire room has been tossed and trashed. The couch cushions are shredded, stuffing scattered; the rug has been pulled up and cut into uneven strips; the side tables have been reduced to splinters; the lamps have been shattered and broken into at least two parts; and the brick mantle around the fireplace looks as if someone took a sledgehammer to it since parts of it are reduced to dust. I stare in shock, arms falling to my sides.

I can't wrap my mind around the destruction. Though a few spells can fix it, they can't negate the wanton and deliberate damage done to my home and my family's belongings.

Blowing my breath out, I move into the kitchen. In here the cabinets have been thrown open, their contents emptied onto the floor. The refrigerator door is propped open by the mop, mocking me. Liquid items still drip down from the top shelf, exacerbated by the melting ice cream from the freezer above.

Still in shock, I move into the dining room and find that every piece of the china given to us by Katy's grandmother when she died four years ago is broken. Even the salt and pepper shakers that were on the dining room table are broken.

My hands are trembling now. I wouldn't trust myself to fire my gun, but my spells can go wide since they'll be stopped by the walls. Bullets have no respect for arbitrary boundaries and I could seriously injure someone I don't mean to injure with the shape I'm in.

Upstairs, the near-immaculate home I left not twenty-four hours before is complete in its ransacking. The guest bedroom, Emily's room -- and at that, I have to pause and it's a serious effort to fight back my tears -- even the fucking bathroom.

But in the master bedroom is when I can't keep it together any longer.

For Christmas, Katy talked me into sitting for a family portrait. Not just a photograph, but an actual painting. The artist seemed to capture all of us exquisitely, so much so that, had he been a wizard, I would have commissioned him for a Wizarding portrait. We received the completed artwork in April and had hung it above the fireplace downstairs.

It is now ruined on our bed. What looks like red paint but is probably blood is painted over Katy's face as if someone were using the red from Emily's fingerpaint set. Around Emily, there is a circle with a slash through it, a "no" symbol. Around my head is a target. To add to that insult, nearly every portion of the canvas has been slashed to ribbons, though carefully enough that the portrait is still anchored in its frame and all three of us are completely visible.

I don't know why, but this is the last straw.

I collapse next to the bed, falling hard on my knees, cross my arms and sob.


	3. Chapter 3: Balance

  
Author's notes: **chapter summary:**   Where does a cop looking for his missing daughter end and vigilante begin?  
 **chapter notes:**   Still loving Google and adding Wikipedia to it this chapter.  


* * *

**Breaking Point  
Chapter 3: Balance**

Though I know I need to sleep -- I've needed to sleep for two days -- I can't. I'm beyond exhausted but every time I close my eyes, I imagine what Zabini must have done to Katy after killing her to bloody that room. A mere gunshot wouldn't have made it look like an abattoir. Then I imagine what Emily is suffering, and it drives me mad.

By the time the holiday fireworks have ceased, I'm ready to pursue Zabini. I have shed my tears, my Muggle items, and feel hollow enough to not obsess about how much like my seventeen-year-old self I feel. Everyone had expected me to die. I had expected to die. I was prepared to die. It should frighten me that I feel the same way now.

The only thing anchoring me is Emily. I can't fail her. For her, I will fight. For her, I'll keep myself alive.

I can't think about the alternatives, what would happen if she's gone, too.

Though I keep my gun and cell phone, I leave my other Muggle items behind on a clean corner of the dresser.

I haven't cleaned the house and don't intend to clean the house until I find Emily. I bare my teeth in a ferocious smile as I imagine the look on Jennifer Scott's face if she walked into the house now. She would first think me an atrocious housekeeper, despite the fact her daughter keeps the house. My gut twists at the thought of Katy, but I shove it aside and continue sorting ammunition. Jennifer's second thought would almost certainly be something else derogatory about me, whether it be I'd caused a fight or trashed the house myself. She would never think it a crime scene.

Ammunition counted and sorted, I shrink it all and shove it in an interior pocket of my trench coat. Though the heat index is still hovering around ninety near midnight, I need my trench coat. Beyond the sheer number of pockets and a holster for my gun woven into the coat, it's something Katy gave me many years ago. She teased me at the time that I looked like Keanu Reeves in _The Matrix_ when I wore it, but her teasing made me more fond of it than I otherwise would have been. I spent twenty minutes after my crying jag embedding the necessary cooling charms and protective spells into the fabric.

While hunting Voldemort, Hermione managed to steal a set of Auror robes and dissected the spells in it. Once she'd done that, she taught them to Ron and I so we could, at a second's notice, weave the same spells into our own clothing. The corner of my mouth turns up ruefully as I wonder if she'd approve of what I'm doing with those spells now.

The idea about what to do next came when I reached into my pocket and found a scrap of Malfoy's clothing I don't remember picking up. Given the blood stains on it, it must have been part of his shirt. I take it and the few potions ingredients I have downstairs into the kitchen.

A wave of my wand repairs and replaces the curtains over the windows. There's no need for the neighbors to see what I'm doing.

Amidst the mess, I search for and find a large metal mixing bowl. Into it I place half the shirt remnant, taking care to include a portion with blood on it, a few dried herbs, and a mildly hallucinogenic potion. After filling the bowl halfway with cold water, I set it on the counter, take a deep breath, lean over the bowl, and cast a scrying spell on the contents.

Steam wafts upward, filling my nostrils with a scent that turns rancid and sweet. The surface of the water undulates, no longer reflecting my face but the last place Malfoy wore this shirt: the inside of the house on South American Street wavers into view.

The scene shifts, abruptly enough for me to think Malfoy must have been knocked unconscious, into another rowhouse, this one in a neighborhood on the edge and heading downhill rather than riding the wave of urban renewal. The buildings are brick, narrow and two stories tall, all of which pares down the possibilities for its location. I glance to either side as much as possible and see that the street is extremely narrow, forcing the cars to park partially on the sidewalk to allow a car to drive on the asphalt.

That slowly shifts into another place, the exterior of which implies it should match the rancid scent. Graffiti decorates the exterior, which does not surprise me, above the bags of trash huddled next to the wall. The door, almost camouflaged by graffiti, is reinforced steel, and is the only thing to give away the fact this isn't just an abandoned warehouse. I get no sense of where the warehouse is, so Malfoy could have been telling the truth, not just had it locked away in his mind.

Inhaling more deeply, I close my eyes until the dizziness passes. When I open them, I can control the image more fully, as if I were there controlling the scene. Willing the vision to scan side to side, I nearly shout with triumph as the view shifts left. I study the image I'm seeing, "looking" left and right as much as I can, until I see something familiar: the South Street Bridge.

Pulling back, I collapse into a chair, coughing. I try and fail to suppress the nausea and vault to the sink, vomiting.

Once I can think again without feeling lost in my own head, I empty the bowl and incinerate the scrap of fabric. Now that I've obtained what I need from the remnant, I have no need of it and part of a bloody shirt isn't something I should leave lying around right now.

From another pocket, I pull out a map of Philadelphia. There are only a few places where one could stand and look up at the South Street Bridge. The west bank of the Schuylkill River in that area is almost entirely taken up by the University of Pennsylvania. The east bank, however, houses a few warehouses and an electric generation plant.

I want to be excited that I've tracked down a possible location, but any emotions other than anger and fury have been scalded from me. I feel only satisfaction that I could successfully scry the location since it's a skill I was never much good at. I should use something of Emily's and attempt the same procedure, but fear the answer.

Securing my wand and Voldemort's wand, my gun, and the various other shield and spell-based items I took from my cabinet upstairs, I cast a Disillusionment Charm upon myself, shivering despite the temperature outside. I pull what looks like a toothpick from a pocket, lay it on the ground, and enlarge it into my Firebolt. A quick charm on it makes it as invisible as I am.

Though I want to go to the warehouse first, I concentrate on the rowhouse. Once I have the image fixed in my mind, I exit the house, mount my broom, and fly toward the location.

Though I'd expected the house to be in Fishtown or Port Richmond, I find myself heading northwest to Manayunk. Traffic heading up 76 is heavy, despite the hour, making me grateful I'm essentially invisible.

A few minutes later, I begin my descent. I don't need the tracer spell to tell me I've found one of the buildings: the wards practically glow to my eyes. I don't know why I've never seen this place before, never had any inkling it existed.

Landing silently in the postage-stamp rear yard, I sigh. It's a drug house, not distribution but creation. As I contemplate trying to enter, the rear door opens.

"I'm trying to tell you, someone's out there!" a voice shouts from inside.

_The wards alerted the occupants._

The man at the back door, features invisible since he's in silhouette, scoffs as a cat saunters up the steps. "It's just a damn cat!" he shouts back. "Told you they were set too sensitive."

The other man's reply is lost when the door shuts.

Sighing again, I mount my broom and kick off. Once outside the wards, I cast anti-Apparition and anti-Portkey wards on top of the existing ones. I doubt mine will be noticed given that the first set, though functional, were ineptly cast. Wards shouldn't be visible to wizards -- that essentially defeats their purpose. When my additions settle, I move to the front of the home and note the address. Since it's in the middle of the street, that makes identification more difficult. Then I call 911 and report the house. Hopefully my wards will keep everyone inside when the police arrive.

I don't wait around, but instead head south on the river, letting my mind wander. What I should do is call Tony and others in for backup. I should call Ron and Hermione and have them drop everything and get here in an hour or so via short Apparitions. They all would.

But I don't call. I can't. I have to do this alone.

This became personal when I discovered Draco Malfoy in the last place I'd expected him. I'm not even sure this is about releasing Pike other than he's a means to an end. If someone had asked me even three days ago who from my childhood would have the biggest grudge against me, who would be most likely to attack, I would have said Malfoy, not Zabini. But in this, he's merely a pawn. I don't know what I did to Zabini to cause him to destroy my family, and I'm not sure knowing would make a difference.

South Street Bridge glitters ahead. I slow down then glide to a stop on the eastern side of the bridge between the warehouse and the river.

The warehouse is almost identical to that of my vision. In my vision, I didn't see the blacked-out windows. I don't sense any wards, but that could just mean a better wizard put them up than the one who did the Manayunk house.

I shrink my broom again, tucking it into a pocket.

I'm tempted to Apparate inside, wand blazing, but that is almost certainly the best way to get Emily killed.

The desperate desire to do something pushes at me, but I tamp it down, wryly noting to myself that that fifteen-year-old lives closer to the surface than I thought.

I can faintly hear the river slapping against its concrete banks, as well as the occasional car across the bridge sounding a bit like muffled gunshots when tires traverse the metal grates. At three in the morning, despite the holiday, the city is mostly asleep.

The interior of the building is a mystery to me, I realize with dawning horror. The scrying spell I used showed me physical location and the exterior, but not interiors. _Fuck._ I could go in blind or ask Tony to get me to Malfoy and strip the knowledge of the interior from him. Neither is very palatable.

Shoving my hand through my hair, I walk the perimeter of the building. The only door is the reinforced steel door on the river side I saw in my vision. Every window is blacked-out with spells; paint would at least chip and allow someone to peer in. There is no basement access. I contemplate mounting my broom again and surveying the roof, but if Zabini has the exterior walls tightly locked down, he'll have thought of the roof as well.

Malfoy it is.

Unwilling to alert anyone inside that a wizard is outside, I walk the block and a half to South Street. From there, I Apparate home. I'm tired of going in circles. This will end tonight and Emily will be back in my arms. If she isn't . . . well, if she isn't, that's not something I can contemplate right now.

Flipping open my cell, I use the speed-dial to reach Tony.

He answers on the third ring, sounding much more awake than I would have thought. "Yeah?"

"I need to see Malfoy."

A humming silence fills the line, but I know he's still there. We both know I'm calling in a favor. Early in our partnership, he asked me to look the other way for something similar and I did.

"The Feds take him in the morning," Tony replies, grunting. By the squeaking I hear, I imagine he's shifted to sit up in bed.

I glance at the clock. Half three. "Then I'd better do this quickly."

Tony sighs. "Meet me in lock-up at four."

I'm already waiting at the main door when Tony arrives. He's disheveled and untidy but one of the few steady presences in my life right now. He stops a few feet from me, eyeing me critically.

"You look like shit, Potter," he growls.

I raise an eyebrow. "And you look like you got out of bed on the wrong side, DiMarino."

He snorts. "Yeah, yours." With that, he turns to unlock the doors.

Nearly all the prisoners are asleep except for the few most recently brought in, generally for drunkenness. It takes only a glare backed with a bit of magical glow in my eyes to make the drunks turn and hide. Tony glances at me once before stopping in front of Malfoy's cell and unlocking the door.

Before I can enter, though, he lays a hand on my shoulder to make me turn. "No physical marks," he murmurs, crossing his arms over his chest, making his biceps bulge in his t-shirt.

I bare my teeth. "Of course not, but don't be alarmed if you see something odd."

He rolls his eyes. "Odd is ordinary for you."

I don't smile though part of me wants to do just that. Malfoy is asleep as I enter, but wakes quickly enough when I kick his bunk.

He twitches and falls to the floor, startling awake. Glaring at me from the floor, he looks like a petulant child. "You again."

Grabbing him under the armpits, I set him back on the bunk before he can protest. A softly murmured spell with a hand on my hidden wand keeps him pinned to the bunk. Another hidden spell places a silencing charm on the cell.

"I found the warehouse," I begin.

Malfoy laughs. "Congratulations."

Anger wells inside me, but I shove it back. Malfoy has always been an ass and only wants to push my buttons. Unfortunately, he usually knows exactly how to do it. I don't have time to proceed with wooing the information from him. Instead, I close the distance between us and grip his chin.

I hold his eyes with mine, hoping I can intimidate him into giving up the information. His grey gaze fades from superior to bland to submissive in the space of two minutes. I say nothing. Pulling my wand, I rest it against his temple. His eyes widen, fear now in them.

Before he can even open his mouth to protest, I cast _Legilimens_ and crash into his head. He's frozen in place as I essentially rape his mind. Paging through memories related to that warehouse, I collect all the information I can and will sort through it after I leave. When I've collected what I think might be useful, I begin to pull out of his mind, but find a thread about Pike. Following it, I find he's been in Pike's company often enough to oversee brewing in Pike's absence. Pike is a wizard and in charge of potions for this group.

Setting aside that shock, I pull out completely and none too gently.

Malfoy sits, still dazed, on the edge of the bunk. Holding my wand on him, aiming between his eyes, I wait for him to meet my eyes again. He blinks. The fear in his expression increases, but I can't feel sorry about it when it's the exact reaction I'd desired.

Pressing my wand closer until it rests against his forehead, the scent of urine reaches my nose. Malfoy has wet himself in fear.

"No," he whispers.

Snorting in disgust, I cast _Stupefy_ and _Obliviate_ in quick succession. I release the silencing charm and call for Tony.

He appears a moment later and releases me, glancing only briefly at Malfoy. He meets my eyes as I exit the cell. I sigh and say, "He'll wake around mid-morning. Might give the Feds problems during transport."

We walk out of the detention area side-by-side in silence, stopping only once we're outside the doors. The first signs of dawn are appearing in the forms of a slight lightening of the eastern sky and the sound of birds. I wait for Tony to speak first, which he does after a minute.

"Did you find the place?"

Scrubbing a hand over my face, I allow, "I found one place, but I needed more information from Malfoy before I entered."

Tony rocks slightly on his heels, hands tucked deep into the front pockets of his jeans. "Do you need me?"

I turn at that. Yes, I need him, but there's no place for him there. "It's not a good idea, Tony."

He glances sideways at me, the look in his eyes unyielding. "You will call me."

"Yes."

Studying me another minute, he nods, then heads for his car.

I wait until he's out of sight before I cast a silencing charm on my shoes and Apparate back to the warehouse. From Malfoy's mind, I know there are no perimeter wards. All the alarms are linked to the physical exterior, meaning the doors, walls and windows. Though Malfoy consciously knew nothing about the warehouse, his subconscious held the password to get into the building.

Tugging the collar up on my trench coat as if to bury my face, I stride to the door. Knocking four times in quick succession, I lean in and whisper the password: "Mudblood." I feel like I need to wash myself after saying it, but it does open the door.

Elation nearly overwhelms me, then the worry that this was too easy fills me. Maybe Zabini expected Malfoy to keep their secrets due to the fact he was taken from here while unconscious. In any case, it worries me.

The door shuts behind me abruptly, and I have to dismiss the odd sensation of feeling sealed inside my own tomb. It's nearly silent. The only thing I can hear is the regular, mechanical thrumming of an air conditioning system.

_Please don't let the warehouse be empty._

I pull my gun from my holster with small creak from the leather. My wand in one hand and my gun in the other, I begin a methodical search of the warehouse. Though I've become accustomed to building searches, I never again want to be accustomed to using both wand and gun. In the front half of the building, I find nothing more than boxes. Since I can shift one of them easily with my hands, I assume the boxes are either empty or filled with nothing more than packing peanuts. Considering they look too pristine to have been shipped, I can only conclude that they have yet to receive their contents.

_Why is there a warehouse of empty boxes? Curiouser and curiouser._

My coat whispers around my shins as I turn to look down another row of boxes. At the far end of the row is a small patch of light. No sound, only light. Either no one is there or they cast silencing charms, even indoors, without a light-blocking charm, relying instead on the blacked-out windows.

I make my way slowly down the row, gun and wand ready. My heart is beating fast enough that there is a small twitch in my fingers with each beat. I must control the twitch before it makes me accidentally pull the trigger.

No one accosts me, no one confronts me. The only sound I hear, other than the air conditioning, is the barely-audible movement of my coat.

Kneeling next to the last box, I close my eyes and try to calm my nerves. I know I'm running on adrenaline, caffeine and a Pepper-Up potion, none of which is good for calming nerves, but I have to try -- otherwise I will get Emily or myself killed.

Crouching as low as I can go, I peer around the corner. I either crossed the entire warehouse or there are interior spatial charms because this seems to be the back of the building. Along the wall are a series of offices, one of which is lit, the door open and blinds up, clear signs they didn't expect company. However, between me and the office is another row of boxes parallel to the ones I'm crouching behind. There is also an empty aisle perpendicular to me and running the length of the warehouse. At the end of that aisle, furthest from me, is another pool of light with shifting shadows as people move.

Pulling back, I sit on my heels, still crouching and ready to jump up if need be. From this angle, I don't know if anyone is in the office or not, nor can I tell if anyone is in any of the darkened offices. I'm torn between investigating the office and investigating the far end of the warehouse. But, if Emily is here, she'd almost certainly be in one of the offices, hopefully the illuminated one.

Shifting my wand to my left hand, I rub my right over my face. Is my priority my daughter or Zabini?

My gut clenches. Definitely Emily. I can always call in Aurors after the fact, but I need to find Emily.

Though what I should do, to be safe, is backtrack to the door then head down a parallel row, I don't. Instead, I straighten, shift my wand back to my right hand and ease around the corner. The boxes, stacked three-high, are taller than I am. While that provides cover for me, it also provides cover for anyone who might be following me or even patrolling the warehouse.

Spinning around the corner to the next row, I cover the row with my wand and the aisle with my gun.

No one.

The illuminated office is still one row away.

I shift down another row. Still no one.

Crossing the aisle, I press my back to the wall next to the door. Still silent. Even if everyone were asleep, I would hear breathing and shifting, which means there's a silencing charm in effect.

I hunch down inside my coat, using it to mask my face as much as possible, then peek around the corner.

Two men, wizards almost certainly, are playing cards at the metal desk just under the window. Though one has his back to the door, the other is damn near looking right at me. _Fucking hell, why didn't I put on the Invisibility Cloak?_

Further back in the room is a small nest of blankets. And, in the middle of those blankets, is Emily.

I jerk back, flattening myself against the wall again.

I have to find a way to get the goons out and me into that room. I don't know if the silencing charms are one-way or two-way, so I can't automatically expect them to investigate any disturbance I make in the warehouse. More than likely, it would be the workers at the end of the aisle to investigate, not the two from the room, creating more problems than I need.

With Emily so close, eagerness to storm into the room is nearly making me twitch again. Gritting my teeth, I crouch down and wait.

A head appears in the doorway, looking first away from me then toward me up and down the aisle. Thankfully he doesn't look down. "No one -- " The rest of his sentence is cut off as he slips inside the silencing charms again.

_Did he hear me or see me when I looked around the door?_ I didn't make any noise, so it must have been sight. I edge further away from the door just in time for both of them to step into the aisle.

Before I can consciously react, I've grabbed one and, despite having my gun in one hand and wand in the other, twist his head and break his neck. He falls like a stone. I meet Greg Goyle's eyes a half-second before I put a bullet in his brain.

The sound of the gun reverberates through the warehouse.

_Fuck!_

Shoving gun and wand into my pockets, I dash into the office. Noting only that she seems to be unharmed, I gather up a still-sleeping Emily, blankets and all and try to Apparate. Nothing. I try one more time before accepting there are anti-Apparition wards in place.

An alarm sounds.

Panic flutters under my skin despite all my training and experience. Were I alone, this situation would merely be bothersome. With Emily, though, it terrifies me. Shifting her from the cradle of my arms to my left arm, resting her head on my shoulder, frees my right hand. Yanking my wand from my pocket, I aim down the aisle.

None of the boxes will block a bullet, though they might shield some lesser spells. I can't afford to take those sorts of chances, not with Emily. And the only door is on the other side of the building.

I didn't think this through.

No time to worry about that now as the first spell careens around the far corner, crashing with yellow sparks into the wall in front of me.

Rather than cursing like I desperately want to, I first Disillusion Emily then myself. The cold sensation startles Emily awake, whereupon she promptly begins screaming. Hating myself, I cast a silencing charm on my daughter.

Spells crash all around us, pinpointed by Emily's screams. I turn and run into a row between boxes. Once in the middle of the row, I crouch down, resting Emily on my knee.

Though she can't see me and I can't see her but for a faint shimmer, I can feel her trembling. Stroking her hair gently, I put my mouth near her ear and whisper, "Sssh, it's Daddy." She jerks in shock, then trembles in such a way that I know she's crying. My heart drops into my stomach. "Sssh, you can't talk to me, but I can talk to you. It's a game."

Shouts resonate from where I left Goyle and his companion, most likely Crabbe.

"Do you understand, little one?" I whisper, still stroking her hair. She nods slowly. "Then hang on." I feel her arms wind monkey-like around my neck and my heart, from its location in my stomach, skips a beat. I don't deserve her unconditional trust, not after everything that's happened, but she doesn't know that.

Rising, I move sideways down the row toward the door, trying to cover both ends of the row with my wand at the same time.

The blasting curse knocks me off my feet, sending Emily crashing into the boxes behind me. I've got to get her out of here. I can't fight and protect her at the same time. Shifting to my hands and knees, I crawl across the floor to Emily's shimmer.

Then freeze when she becomes visible.

Her blonde hair, so like her mother's, is a filthy tangle. The white sundress flecked with pink bows she wore for the trip down the shore -- _fuck was that only two days ago?_ \-- is filthy. Her green eyes, so like my own, are puffy and red from crying.

She rises into the air by one arm, making me blink in shock until I see the shimmer of someone else under a Disillusionment. I cast _Finite_ silently.

Zabini.

Zabini has my little girl.

He shakes her once, her resulting screams all the more terrible for being silent. Zabini notes this and ends my silencing charm on her. Her cries tear me apart, each one shredding my soul just a little more, adding to the guilt of Katy's murder already tearing me apart.

"Potter, what are you going to do about your brat?" he calls out. His voice is just as supercilious as I remember. His previously renowned looks, though, are marred by a vicious scar bisecting his face from his hairline, over his left eye, cutting short one nostril, across his lips and down to his jaw. Given how proud the boy was, I can only imagine how horrified the man is.

Then he shakes Emily again.

I stand, pulling my gun from my pocket as I do. Pointing my gun at Zabini, I tap myself on the head and cancel the spell, shifting my wand back to him.

His smile is oily. "There you are, Potter."

"Daddy!" Emily cries. I try to smile at her, but the hatred coursing through me nearly overwhelms the comforting thoughts I want to send.

"Now, are we going to be able to resolve this peacefully?" he croons.

He sounds insane. Does he really expect me to do anything peacefully? Playing along for the moment, I ask, "Resolve what?"

"I want Pike, you want your brat." He shakes her again. My hand twitches, ready to curse him.

"Why is Pike so important?"

Zabini stares at me for a long moment as if incredulous. Then he laughs. "You have no fucking idea what you stumbled on, do you? Just like in school."

I tip my head to one side, studying him. Other than the scar and the slightly mad gleam to his eye, he seems rational. Mentally, I scoff at the thought. Then I consider Pike and remember the odd smell about him I'd attributed to the sheer amount of drugs he'd had on him when arrested.

"A relation?" I ask finally.

His grin is chilling. "Very good. Now, can you figure out the rest or do you need a duplicitous headmaster to give you the answers?"

_Why would he want Pike? Is Pike a relation close enough to Zabini to make him angry when arrested? What about the rest?_

"The potions . . . the potions are the key," I whisper. Potion-enhanced drugs, a good sale for Muggle and wizard alike.

Zabini claps, shaking Emily in the process. She sobs uncontrollably and there is still nothing I can do about it. "By Merlin, he figures it out!"

"But why Pike?"

Zabini narrows his eyes. "Maybe you aren't as smart as I thought." He tips his head up to look down his nose at me. Slowly, as if to a backwards child, he says, "Zabinis are traditionally potions masters."

_Pike looks a hell of a lot like Zabini, and is a relation. Brother or cousin who didn't go to Hogwarts?_ Gritting my teeth when he shakes Emily again and refusing to allow my anguish to show, I demand, "Is he your brother?"

His grin is terrible. "Maybe you are smarter than you look. Mother told me to look after him. It's not my fault he moved to this pit called America, but she sent me here to _watch_ him. He's an ungrateful little bastard."

I don't doubt Pike is an ungrateful little bastard, but Zabini is insane. "What do you want, Zabini?"

He slowly sets Emily down, but I think the motion is secondary to his suddenly inward-turned thoughts. He doesn't let go of her arm, though. If he did, I'd encourage her to run forward and I'd then do my best to blast us out of here with sheer power.

"I want your life," he finally says in almost a sing-song. "You took mine, so it's only fair I take yours in recompense."

"I took your life?" I ask, astonished. "How did I do that when you're standing there talking to me?"

He rolls the left sleeve of his shirt up. The Dark Mark. The wand in the interior pocket of my trench coat vibrates and threatens to leap from the pocket. Fuck, I'd forgotten I put Voldemort's wand there. If I don't take it, it will go to Zabini; if I reach for it, he'll harm me or Emily.

It leaves me no choice as it slips from the pocket entirely.

As I grab the wand and aim it at Zabini's head, he grins viciously and turns his wand on Emily. My _Reductor_ takes off his head before he can finish _Avada_.

Shoving the wand back into a pocket, I gather a stunned Emily and race from the warehouse, followed by Zabini's minions. Once outside the anti-Apparition wards, I Apparate Emily and I to the Stone Harbor house, forgetting until the last minute that our home in Philadelphia was trashed.

Then I carry my daughter upstairs for a bath. I don't know if it's because she's tired or in shock, but there is little animation to her. Gently, I strip her filthy clothing off, noting with horror that she was allowed to soil herself. Charming the water warm, I fill the bathtub.

As I wash her hair, rubbing her scalp, she starts to cry again.

And I cry, too.


	4. Epilogue

  
Author's notes: **chapter summary:**   How do you recover when your life has been torn apart?  
 **chapter notes:**   I think is the first time I’ve made myself cry.  Then again, writing at 2:30 in the morning will do that to a person.  


* * *

**Breaking Point  
Epilogue**

The wind pulls at our robes, but we ignore it. As long as the cooling charms on our robes hold, we're fine. There are only a few trees on this hill, and none so large for a windbreak yet. When we first were here, Katy's was one of only a few stones. Now this section of the cemetery is full with no new gravesites in the last three years.

"Do you think she would have approved, Dad?"

I turn to look at my daughter. She's grown into a beautiful young woman who, in many ways, reminds me of Katy. The thought isn't as painful as it once was. Today is Emily's eighteenth birthday -- and the fifteenth anniversary of her mother's murder.

I reach over and tuck an errant strand of honey-blonde hair behind her ear, making her huff and swat my hand away. I don't try to hide the smile at the corner of my mouth at her response.

"Yes, Em, she would have approved," I murmur in reply.

She pulls out her wand -- holly and dragon heartstring -- and whispers, " _Orchideous_." A small bouquet of tulips, Katy's favorite flower, erupts from Emily's wand. I step back and allow her a few moments alone as she kneels to place them at Katy's grave.

I can see that Jennifer and Matthew paid their respects earlier by the small bouquet of roses at the left side of the tombstone. It doesn't seem to matter to them that Katy never liked roses -- a fact I found out when she threw them at my head the first and only time I brought her roses.

I'm torn from my memories when Hugo Weasley walks up to Emily, resting a hand on her back. She straightens, brushes dirt from her knees, tosses a sheepish smile over her shoulder at me, then returns to the limo with Hugo. Our driver knows we'll be here for a while.

It was not a shock to me when Emily received her Hogwarts letter. I had tried to make a go of it in Philadelphia after those fateful few days, but nothing ever seemed to be right again. To my in-laws' dismay, I took the opportunity Emily's letter presented to return to the United Kingdom. I still keep in touch with Tony, and his new wife, but no one else (except my in-laws, and that is under duress). In fact, I will be visiting with them and their new son tomorrow.

The FBI wanted me arrested when I contacted them on the fifth, Sikes especially. It was one instance in which Veritaserum in the Muggle world would have been a good thing. After I allowed the FBI to verify Emily was truly rescued, I dropped her off at Matthew and Jennifer's. Even though Emily's fear at being separated nearly destroyed me, as fragile as we both were at that point, I had to do it so I could take the FBI and police to the warehouse on the river.

Only to discover it had burned to the ground without one fire alarm being triggered or the fire department being alerted.

After that, I confronted Pike about his relationship to Zabini and discovered they were half-brothers by one of Zabini's mother's many marriages. Pike confirmed Zabini had been a bit obsessed with me ever since that final battle with Voldemort, during which Zabini received the horrific scar on his face -- for which he blamed me.

Malfoy eventually led Tony to Katy's body. Tony never told me what exactly happened, and there was a closed casket, but he assured me it was Katy. I never asked to verify, trusting Tony thoroughly. I'm sure my imagination, as evidenced by my nightmares, provides enough to feast upon without knowing the truth. He also coordinated the restoration of our Philadelphia home and, in the process, discovered nothing had been stolen, it was just destroyed for the sake of destruction. The knowledge has been like a thorn in my side even after so many years.

When I notified Ron and Hermione I would be returning to the United Kingdom and bringing Emily, they insisted I move in with them. I declined because I had a job: Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Hermione just laughed knowingly even as Ron shook his head.

It was difficult to step back and allow the romance to blossom between Emily and Hugo, despite the fact she was a Slytherin and Hugo quintessentially Gryffindor. I don't know if it would have been easier to witness them fall in love via letters, but as a professor, I had front-row seats to their courtship.

She has tried to get me to date a few times in the last few years, but I have declined every witch she's tried to set me up with. When she asked if I wanted to date wizards instead -- and laughed at my stunned reaction -- she began teasing me that she's a modern witch and can handle her dad dating men. I'm not interested in men, either. I think she was disappointed.

Ron murmurs that he's returning to the car and I nod absently. Hermione rests a hand on my arm. "Can you do this, Harry?"

I glance at her, my eyes already swimming. "Yes, I must."

She smiles wistfully. "No, you don't, but you will." And, with that, she returns to the car as well.

I cross to Katy's grave and kneel before it. I brush dirt off the headstone, then wipe my hand on the grass.

"This is the last time we'll be here for a while, Kate," I say softly, shoving a hand through my hair. "I know we come every year, but we can't visit for the next few." My smile is watery. "Emily wants to be an Auror, Kate." Scrubbing furiously at my face, I force myself to continue. "She'll be in the Academy for the next few years and neither of us wants to visit you alone."

My voice fails as the tears slide down my cheeks. Cursing under my breath, I pull a tissue from my pocket. After two tissues and several throat clearings, I can continue.

"She's never really gotten over what happened to you, you know. I've tried to help her, but . . . but I can't." The years of therapy we both endured have allowed us to cope. I think Emily has survived better than I have, but I can live with that. "She wants to help children. There's . . . there's this special department in the Aurors -- Hermione helped set it up after you . . . well, after -- that helps kidnapped children. She wants to join them."

Another three tissues.

"Fuck, Katy, you'd be so proud of her."

I stand, knees protesting, and lay a hand on her headstone.

"I love you, Katy."

And, though it has to be my imagination, I swear I hear, "I love you, too, Harry."


End file.
